The Thursday lessons had started again. Although they had not altogether
banished Egypt, that subject was suffering from a gradual disgrace. As a
rule Mme. Chambannes had failed to read the prescribed books. Or else a
stray word sent them both into a friendly gossip concerning the little
happenings of the day: a new dress of Zozé's, which the master declared
to his taste, her account of a dance or a play, and subjects that were
even more trivial. Once they had run away from the arid regions of
science, neither of the two found enough courage to return there. By
common consent, they avoided the paths of conversation which might have
led them back. It was only towards the end that Mme. Chambannes would
exclaim:
"Well!... Another fine lesson!... If it goes on like this, I shall know
a lot at the end of the year!... Ah! What a deplorable professor you
are!..."
M. Raindal smiled. Then, if he had not already abused that license, he
seized Zozé's hand and ardently pressed his lips against it. Wisely, she
allowed him but two or three such tender outbursts at each lesson. Yet
in her heart she was flattered. It amused her to see this famous,
white-haired, man bending over her with love. His white hair contrasted
with his skin and made it look pinker, and she found this play of color
neat and pleasant to her eyes.
On the third Thursday she inquired about Cyprien. Why did not M. Raindal
introduce his brother to her? She was quite anxious to meet him. The
master replied evasively:
"Oh, my dear friend!"--as he called her now when they were alone and in
the intimacy of their lessons--"my brother is a good fellow.... Yet I
doubt very much whether you could get on together.... His temperament is
brusque; he is an extremist, an absurd man.... Again, I noticed from
certain signs that your absence of a month ago displeased him.... I
prefer, therefore, not to risk myself in explanation of which I do not
foresee any favorable results...."
"Just as you say!" replied Zozé, who had only insisted out of
politeness.
M. Raindal nevertheless had almost spoken the truth. Uncle Cyprien had
never omitted, during the last few weeks, any occasion to flay, _en
passant,_ the discourteous ways of Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan.
Systematically, resolutely, and in spite of everything, he was doing his
best to prevent his brother from urging an introduction. To go and
hobnob with the Chambannes and their friends, that would be the last
straw! To go there, where he would have to meet Pums, the marquis,
perhaps Talloire, who would stupidly come and pat him on the shoulder,
compromise him and denounce him with their accomplice-like cordiality,
so that M. Raindal would learn of his dealings at the Bourse, his
speculating in gold mines! No, thank you! He preferred to lie, to resort
to the very worst stratagems, such as simulated spite, false laughter
and fictitious anger, rather than fall into this hornet's nest!
Therefore, he seized the slightest pretext to deliver his imprecations.
"A woman of the world, Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan? A woman of the world, this
person who had bolted without warning and left people waiting for her,
without giving them a word of apology! A woman of the world, this person
who had gone away, no one knew where! A woman of the world, this
person...."
"Oh please! leave me alone!" M. Raindal interrupted, unable to stand it
any more. "I am not asking you to let me take you there, am I?"
"You should add that you are very wise not to do so!" Uncle Cyprien
retorted, delighted with the success of his tactics.
However, apart from the little tricks which he was compelled to employ
for fear of being censured, for fear of his brother and Schleifmann, he
had never been happier.
He very seldom went to the Bourse; on the other hand, he now operated
without any help, dealing directly with Talloire. He enjoyed the
feverish pleasure of giving his own orders, following their varying
fortunes and taking his profit and placing it elsewhere. Several
inspirations stood behind him; there was the advice of his friend Pums,
some secret intuitions of his own, and the advice of a special sheet,
the "Lingot," for which he had taken a three months' subscription. Good
luck had a share in it, and in time the total of his profits reached the
neat sum of 35,000 francs.
He had no more than 75,000 francs to make now; that is to say, according
to the least optimistic calculations, not more than four months to
speculate.
Then! Ah, then, with these one hundred thousand francs in his pocket,
Uncle Cyprien would discard his mask, break with Talloire, put a stop to
the game and openly declare his profits. But until then, _motus_,
silence, caution and mystery, in short as much hypocrisy as they wished!
Accordingly, the very choice cigars which M. Raindal smoked at the
brasserie were, according to him, a present from the Marquis.
"Yes, my dear Schleifmann!" he asserted, "I found the box waiting for me
when I came home."
It must have been a huge box, a trunk almost, if one could judge from
the number of havanas which it kept on supplying.
And it was the same thing about the tricycle which the ex-official had
not been able to resist purchasing: perhaps Schleifmann thought that it
was the result of further speculation? That was a very serious mistake!
It had been paid for with the remains of his seven hundred francs
profit, that tricycle.... Huh! That shut him up effectively, the
moralist!... Or else Cyprien opposed a stoic reply to the inquiries of
his brother, his niece, and his sister-in-law:
"Where did I find the money to buy this machine, you wish to know? With
my savings on cigarettes, my good friends!... What do you suppose? When
you wish one thing you have to do without another. It is extremely
simple."
He had added to these purchases that of a soft brown felt hat, the broad
wings of which gave to his close-cropped head somewhat of a Cromwellian
aspect. Thus he could be seen every day with his sombrero, his trousers
gathered at the ankles, riding up and down the city on his tricycle,
even when he had no further to go than the rue de Fleurus to see
Schleifmann, the rue Vavin to get to Klapproth's, or the rue
Notre-Dame-des-Champs to see his brother.
To such short trips, however, he preferred a ride to the Bois,
especially on Sundays, for there he was not troubled by his anxiety
concerning the stock market.
He would go out about ten o'clock, following the boulevard St. Germain,
the place de la Concorde, and the avenue des Champs Élysées. He wore red
gloves and carried a cigar between his teeth. He pedaled with delight,
bending over his front wheel, drinking in the sweet morning breeze that
rushed against his cheeks. Then, as he approached the Arc de Triomphe,
he straightened up, slowed down his pace and rectified his position. The
avenue du Bois stretched before him, as far as he could see, the ample
magnificence of its sidewalks and gardens. In the atmosphere there was
already a certain heat which gave a feeling of ripeness and of summer.
Under the chestnut trees near the entrance, a crowd of pretty women in
light dresses chatted, standing, or sitting down with elegant gentlemen.
From the distance, officers and young men approached at a canter and
slowed down as they passed out of the riding track. Their horses shook
themselves, stretched their necks and, if pulled back, scratched the
hard ground under them. Or there would be a light-colored coach entering
the avenue, pulled by four imposing horses. One could see light dresses
on top of it, flowery hats, graceful women who smiled, and men with
dissipated faces. Behind them in a smart herald-like attitude, his elbow
lifted high and his body bent backward, a lackey would draw out of a
long brass instrument raucous and triumphant appeals. One might think it
the gorgeous chariot of Youth and Pleasure.
Uncle Cyprien was thrilled by this spectacle and the noise that went
with it. His eyes, his lungs, and his ears drunk in the intoxication of
the orgy of colors, perfumes and sounds; in spite of himself he derived
from it a sensation of supreme enchantment. He rushed after the
fascinating coach, caught up with it, ran alongside of it and in front
of it, swelling with pride, despite the speed which caught his breath.
He passed through the gate, rode slowly under the shady trees, and
stopped at a café to drink an _apéritif_. It was not until the lunch
hour that he returned, still by the avenue du Bois.
Sometimes on his way back he noticed among the passers-by an old
gentleman with a white beard in the company of a young woman.
"Sapristi!" he thought. "My brother and Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan, very likely....
I must be careful!... I must hurry out of this."
He affected to close his eyes as if blinded by the dust, and rushed
between the carriages like one pursued. It was a superfluous precaution;
an imaginary peril! M. Raindal had also taken good care to look the
other way.
These Sunday morning outings were Mme. Chambannes' own idea. She had
discovered this clever way of publicly showing her friendship with the
master. And although this exhibition took place only one or two Sundays
a month, Zozé derived much gratification for her vanity from it. Smiles
and sarcastic grins which she noticed as she passed only increased her
satisfaction.
"You may laugh, my friends," she thought to herself, "you may joke, but,
nevertheless, you envy me very much!"
Most of the time Chambannes or her Uncle Panhias joined the couple for
the sake of appearances. At other times, Gerald, either on foot or on
his bicycle, came and stopped a while to exchange a few words with them.
Despite the unpleasantness of such meetings, M. Raindal was far from
disliking his Sunday walks. They brought relief to his week and with the
reflection of their splendor seemed to illuminate the gloomy stagnation
of the days that followed until he came again for his Thursday visits.
They were like a supplementary holiday to him, a semi-monthly festival,
and had it not been that he dreaded his family, he would have come every
Sunday.
Besides, what documents, what precious observations he was able to
accumulate there, for use in his book! These refined young men and
attractive women--were they not the living representatives of the
voluptuous élite which persisted through the centuries? Did they not
constitute the sacred battalion of pleasure which, at every period of
history, led the chorus of elegance, issued the decrees of fashion, and
dominated society by means of their charm, grace, and beauty? It needed
but a simple effort of transposition for him to discern in them the
coquettes and the men about town who had been the contemporaries of
Rameses or King Tuthmosis!
Thus, in the course of his walks, M. Raindal took good care not to
forget his severe duties as a historian. Whenever he was not looking at
Mme. Chambannes, he was transposing and gathering in his memory a
thousand significant details. The ladies caught his attention more than
the men. He sought the eternal in their enticing gestures and their
alluring glances; he did not find it there, but, nevertheless, drew
satisfaction from them. He had passed several of them so often that
they were clear in his memory. Whenever he recognized their silhouettes
at a distance, he prepared himself to stare at them. His new gloves,
which he held in his hand against the knob of his stick, spread their
fingers like the stiff petals of a lotus flower. His blue cheviot coat,
gray trousers, black felt hat, his button of an officer of the _Légion
d'Honneur,_ and his beard, silvery and well-kept, gave him the
appearance of a manufacturer grown old in the midst of wealth, of a rich
conservative faithful to his sound principles.
Towards twelve o'clock they went back to the rue de Prony. Luncheon was
a long affair. The blinds were pulled down and allowed only a yellowish
light to filter through. Flowers placed on the table exhaled their
harmonious fragrance. And when, moreover, Chambannes lit his cigar and
Zozé the Turkish tobacco of her cigarette, the whole atmosphere
fulfilled the overwhelming desire for a siesta which the master felt in
the semi-darkness. His eyes were burnt by the sun and his legs tired by
his walk; he struggled between his desire to look at his pupil a little
longer and the weight of sleepiness which pulled his eyelids down. On
the verge of giving way, he would rise and take his leave.
As soon as he was out, however, his heart was tormented by regret. He
reproached himself sharply for his stupid drowsiness, for having wasted
those sweet moments by his physical slackness. It would not have taken
much to make him go back on the pretense of having forgotten something
or to make an inquiry. But what inquiry? Self-consciousness and shame
prevented him from going back. He went on his way with an increasing
petulance. No sooner had he reached his home, in the rue
Notre-Dame-des-Champs, than his exasperated bitterness turned to hatred.
What an unlovely district! What tomb-like buildings! As soon as his
lease ran out, they would see! He certainly would not renew it.
Through the door of his apartment sounds came to him of conversation and
laughter. Thérèse was in the drawing-room with Boerzell, who still came
regularly every Sunday.
Once, as he came in, M. Raindal heard the name of Dastarac pronounced.
"What!" he said, in surprise. "Are you speaking of that wretch?"
Thérèse replied:
"Yes, surely, we were speaking of Dastarac.... I have told M. Boerzell
all about it.... I have nothing to hide...."
"Of course not!" the master assented.
"And do you know what monsieur was telling me?... That he has turned out
very badly--our Dastarac.... There is a story of very unsavory debts,
embezzlement, and false securities. In short, he has been put out of the
University and compelled to run away to Belgium.... M. Boerzell will
explain this to you better than I could."
The young savant told all the details of the affair.
"Well!... A pretty gentleman!..." exclaimed the young girl in a tone of
burning contempt when Boerzell had finished.
"Nothing surprises me from that fellow!" declared M. Raindal. "Just the
same, we owe M. Gaussine a fine debt of gratitude!"
He did not complain that day of the length of the hours. Comforting
thoughts occupied him until dinner-time. So far he had never dared,
under any circumstances, to sound Thérèse concerning the visits of
Boerzell. He stood in fear of reprisals and oft-repeated conventional
inquiries concerning the Chambannes' household. However, now that
Dastarac seemed to be annihilated, crushed as it were, to the disgust of
Thérèse herself, why should not the sympathy which he noticed existed
between the young people follow its normal course? Why should they not,
from being comrades, become husband and wife? And then, besides the joy
of getting his daughter married, what an opportunity for the master, and
what a liberation! No one would remain as a witness of his outings but
Mme. Raindal who, entirely occupied with her religious duties, was an
easy-going woman totally without severity, provided her faith was not
interfered with. No longer any control; no more watch set on him; no
further need to invent new lies or preserve silence! M. Raindal promised
himself that he would keep his eye on this affair with caution and
diplomacy so as not to spoil it.
Yet an oft-recurrent anxiety seized him again after dinner. He was
thinking of the summer and the forthcoming vacation, those three months
which he would, doubtless, have to spend far away from Mme. Chambannes.
As he recollected his impatience, his recent fears during one single
month of privation, he felt a sudden sensation of choking anguish. Where
would she go? To what seashore or mountain resort? How many miles away
would she be? And with whom?
He had discreetly put these questions in the course of many lessons
given to his little pupil. She had replied vaguely. She affected not to
have made up her mind yet and to be still hesitating between Les
Frettes, the seaside, Switzerland or some watering-place. She would
decide on her choice at the time of a certain trip which George was
shortly to make to Bosnia. She sighed as she said that. A melancholy
shadow veiled the tenderness of her eyes. She turned the conversation to
another subject.
His dear little friend!... Who knew but that some torment similar to his
own oppressed her gentle little soul? Who knew but that she also was
afflicted by the idea of the approaching separation?... M. Raindal was
not so far lacking in modesty that he imagined himself alone the subject
of all her possible regrets. However, he did not abandon the idea that
perhaps he could claim a share of them. And he was quite right, too.
It was indeed true that Mme. Chambannes darkened whenever the master
questioned her. But the baseness of Raldo was the only cause of her
sorrow. This problem of their summer vacation was now debated at each of
their meetings. Gerald, whose treachery had only strengthened his
despotism, clung to a project of settling down at Deauville with his
father for the month of August. There were invitations, "de la jolie
femme," pigeon shooting, polo playing, and racing--in short, everything
called him there. Against the attraction of so many pleasures, Mme.
Chambannes' silent tears made no more impression than drops of rain on a
window-pane.
"You can come there," he told her. "I shan't prevent you from coming!"
She shrugged her shoulders. Could she not foresee the torments she would
have to endure at Deauville, without friends, without relations, and
separated from her lover!... Could she not in advance see herself
separated from Raldo and the set which he frequented by that impalpable
barrier, more efficient than an iron railing, which everywhere
surrounded the flock of good society? She would be exposed to the
snobbish glances of those women, the insulting echoes of their joy, the
spectacle of their flirtations, and the social humiliation which can
only be measured at close range.... Zozé, for the sake of her love, and
to safeguard her passion, preferred a thousand times to go into retreat
and abandon it for a time. These sacrifices pierced her heart
beforehand. She took to crying silently, weeping intermittent tears
after holding them back too long, and, between kisses, in the middle of
an embrace, they would unexpectedly wet the cheeks of her Raldo.
How could she be revenged on him, how reply to his pitiless selfishness?
Ah! Zozé was at last beginning to find out that there is no equality in
love. Otherwise, would she not have punished the recent treachery of
Gerald with an immediate betrayal? That was continuing now; would she
not reply with some barbarous plan, say, to choose for her holiday some
place where one or the other of the men who were in love with her
happened to be going? There was Dieppe, for instance, where Givonne was
going, Bagneres, where Pums was to take a cure, or Dinard, where Burzig,
as an authentic Englishman, had taken a little villa. None of these
reprisals satisfied her. She soon convinced herself that Gerald would
not be disturbed by any of these. What, therefore, was the use of her
going to those fashionable resorts which, owing to their similarity,
would forever carry her dreams back to Deauville? Would it not be much
better for her to go and hide at Les Frettes, to seek slumber for her
mind and forgetfulness in that peaceful spot, to plunge herself into the
emptiness of country life till her wicked Raldo came back?
She chose this solution in the first days of July. Gerald promised that
he would join her there at the beginning of September, which was the
time set for Chambannes' return from Bosnia. Zozé was to leave on the
20th with her Aunt and Uncle Panhias. Moreover, she would not be left
altogether alone, since the abbé Touronde was in the neighborhood and
the Herschsteins and Silberschmidts also.
"And, after all," Gerald remarked, "a month is only four weeks.... And
four weeks are very quickly over."
Mme. Chambannes agreed. His nonchalance brought a grimace of contempt
and a tremor to her lips, but her pride made her attempt to smile.
Then came the following Thursday when, without saying anything about
Gerald, she informed M. Raindal of her preparations.
"Ah!" he stammered, blinking, his eyes so full of sorrow and so
imploring that Zozé felt at once moved by it.... "Ah! you are going to
Les Frettes?... Oh, very well ...!"
"What about you, dear master?" said she. "What will you do with your
summer?"
"I?"
He tried to remember, but his mind would not work. At last it came back
to him, and he replied:
"I?... We?... We are going to Langrune, as we do every year.... How long
are you going to stay at Les Frettes?"
"Oh, a month, two months perhaps, maybe three.... It all depends on
George's business."
"Three months!" repeated M. Raindal, whose mind had been struck by the
cruelest of the three figures given. And he added with sincerity: "It
pains me very much, my dear friend!"
At the same time he had seized Mme. Chambannes' hand and greedily
pressed his lips upon it. She sighed with pity. Poor père Raindal! How
heavy his heart must be!
She thought to herself, "Am I wicked!... Yes, I am to him what Gerald is
to me, that's all!" Then, at the thought of the latter's name, a fresh
idea struck her. After all, why not?... It would be a very innocent
revenge, a companionship and a relaxation which were as good as any. And
so, with a little smile, she asked, as she drew away gently from under
the lips of M. Raindal the hand which she had forgotten:
"Listen, dear master, what would you say about spending a few weeks at
Les Frettes?... Would that upset your habits too much?"
M. Raindal contracted his forehead.
"I?... No! not at all!" he said, with the sensation of a comforting
river bathing his heart. "But, there is my wife, and my daughter."
"Why, they would come, too!"
"Do you think so?" the master asked doubtfully.
"Of course, unless they refused, unless they have reasons to decline."
M. Raindal remained silent for a time. His face showed his discomfort.
He rebelled against the need of denouncing his domestic tormentors. At
length he exclaimed:
"Reasons! Why, they have none ... not the slightest!... Yet you know
them a little.... My daughter is a savage; my wife is a bigot.... One
is always on the watch in the presence of such people. Anyhow, my dear
friend, I shall try, and you may guess what zeal and strength of
affections...."
This eloquent peroration seemed to give him a sort of justification for
kissing Zozé's hand once more. The enthusiasm of his promise bolstered
up his hopes throughout the evening. Besides, he had never, as yet,
faced the contest straightforwardly. He had rather avoided it, postponed
it by means of patience and cunning. Who knew what might not come out of
an open battle, if he let loose the whole mass of those grievances and
desires which he had repressed for so many months!